


Thaw

by GlitterGluwu



Series: C*mmies(sions) [8]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Age Difference, Denial, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, F/F, Groping, Mentor/Protégé, Rhea/Catherine (mentioned), Sexual Coercion, Sexuality Crisis, Sister Complex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:08:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25477420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlitterGluwu/pseuds/GlitterGluwu
Summary: It was difficult to categorize the specific misgivings Ingrid had about her relationship to Catherine. She had learned about all the different phases in the development of modern chivalry and that there once was a time - before Faerghus, long before Faerghus - during which it was expected that a knight and his squire would have a sexual relationship. There had once been an expectation that a squire would service his knight in a very particular way, and when Ingrid had first read about such relationships she had blushed up to her ears and stashed that book away like a shameful secret, thanking the goddess that such requirements were no longer the norm.There was plenty to find issue with in Faerghus, but Ingrid didn’t consider the frigid interpersonal relationships among them.---Ingrid has at last convinced Catherine to take her on as her squire, but Catherine seems to have a different idea of what that entails than she does.
Relationships: Catherine/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Series: C*mmies(sions) [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1264997
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34





	Thaw

**Author's Note:**

> Another commission!!! What a fortuitous day!!!!
> 
> Not much to say about this one, either, aside from how much I enjoy exploring all the different characters in this game. God. Every last one of them has such a deep and interesting psyche to probe into, and finding Ingrid was so much fun - not to mention how much I love writing slippery slopes like this. And this time, it was from the victim's perspective!!! MAN it was a good time.
> 
> That said, mind the tags. I'm not responsible for your reaction to this fic, especially having tagged as thoroughly as I did. You should gauge how capable you are of consuming this content before reading it; the ending is, in my eyes, a happy one, but there's still sensitive subject matter in the in-between.

Today was the day. It had to be.

Ingrid had done her level best to… well, not do her best. To not look desperate, to loosen up, to relax - especially where Catherine could see her. She’d be the first to admit that it wasn’t her natural state of being, but certain parts made it easier; Sylvain had had a few suggestions, starting with the more absurd and easing down into ones that felt doable, and reaching out to a few peers from other classes had helped her even more. She’d even had a moment of commiseration with Annette, who was engaged in a similar endeavor in an attempt to placate their professor.

It was with newfound confidence that she slid into the seat across from Catherine in the dining hall. It was with the rise of Catherine’s eyebrows that that very confidence shattered.

“Oh, goodness, I should have asked,” she inhaled, straightening, and Catherine leaned back in her seat, a smirk playing at her lips.

“Still not walking the walk, I see,” she observed, and Ingrid felt shame flooding her cheeks. A test - one that she had unequivocally failed. “Look, Ingrid, you’re clearly a competent girl. You have to know that a few stories about going to the opera with Sylvain and coming back before dusk aren’t going to do much to convince me.”

“But I don’t know what else I could do!” Ingrid objected, placing her head in her hands - hiding from Catherine, in a way. “I don’t want to interfere with my studies, but I swear to you, I can loosen up when it counts.”

“All due respect, but I think this is the only scenario where it  _ would _ count. Why are you so focused on me, anyhow? There’s a bunch of great knights here that’d be a far better match, with far fewer demands. Going straight for one of the holy knights directly under Lady Rhea was already a long shot, you understand.”

“Nobody else has challenged me the way you have,” Ingrid sighed, weary, and rested her cheek in her palm. “What’s the point in finding myself a mentor, if their perspective and their methods don’t challenge my own?”

Catherine listened with her eyes closed, tapping her fingers against her arm. She was quiet for the moment, but when she parted her eyelids and gave Ingrid a slow, purposeful once-over, she couldn’t help but straighten - then curse herself for having done so, when Catherine chuckled at her yet again.

“How about this,” Catherine ventured at long last, and Ingrid felt her heart pounding at the back of her throat, “you get a trial period. Show me what you’ve got, show me how well you can follow orders - and how well you can think for yourself - and we’ll go from there.”

Ingrid felt her mouth fall open - and when Catherine tilted her head, the words spilled out unbidden. “Yes! Gladly, yes, that sounds perfect,” she gushed, cursing every word, knowing in a distant way that she was behaving exactly the way Catherine had scolded her for - but she couldn’t help her elation. “I’ll work to make sure you don’t regret this.”

Catherine wore a small, helpless smile as she tucked back into her meal. “Easy, kid. Better save your energy for when Thunder Catherine is actually laying into her training regimen.”

The mere suggestion made her giddy.

* * *

They had not yet so much as had an opportunity to train together by the time Catherine was summoned to rout some bandits in the countryside; Ingrid had her refusal half-out of her mouth before she paused to consider how valuable it would be to see Catherine’s talents on the field - much more valuable, surely, than sacrificing the time to attend whichever arbitrary seminar Professor Byleth had mandated.

Catherine, for her part, had been pleased; she’d even invited Ingrid to ride in the caravan with her rather than on her pegasus.

“Better to give the thing a rest, in case we get ambushed,” she elaborated, gently rolling her shoulder as she hopped up into a covered wagon and held her hand out for Ingrid to follow. “Have it at full energy for battle, you know?”

“You seem more knowledgeable about mounts than I’d given you credit for!”

“Me? Nah,” Catherine replied, laughing low in her chest. “I think it’s just logic. I couldn’t give you any advice about actually flying the thing.”

“Well, my mount’s quite well-tempered. If you ever wanted to come along for a ride -”

“Let me stop you right there,” Catherine chuckled. She fell into place on the floor of the wagon, propping herself up against a bin of supplies. “The offer is appreciated, but I’m not so sure I’m ready to give  _ either _ of you that much trust. My own two feet suit me just fine.”

“Well,” Ingrid paused, thinking and overthinking her response. “Faerghan tradition states that developing a bond with your mount -”

“I’m clear on Faerghan tradition, Ingrid,” Catherine sighed, picking at her nails. She paused to point to herself. “House Charon, remember?”

Ingrid’s cheeks grew hot. “Right,” she mumbled, falling silent as she took a seat next to Catherine, internally lambasting herself for pushing the topic so much farther than necessary. She searched her mind for a new subject, unable to bear the comparative silence. “I’m sure this mission is in no way out of the ordinary for you by now.”

“You’re right about that. This is an ordinary Sunday, in my book.”

“Do you have any fun stories about routing bandits? Or any lessons to be learned?” Ingrid pressed eagerly. Catherine gave her a tired look.

“You’re awfully eager to glorify this task, aren’t you? You understand that we’re on our way to  _ kill _ people, right?”

Ingrid closed her mouth with a snap. Catherine watched her for another moment, then sighed.

“Look - all I mean to say is that you sound like a rookie when you ask me questions like that,” she explained, reaching up to rub at her neck. “Makes me worry for you. This job isn’t all glory - some of it gets messy, and when rookies like you charge in without the right headspace, they  _ die.” _

Ingrid blinked past her shock. Her first thought - one she hesitated to voice - was how very much Catherine sounded like  _ Felix _ when she spoke like that. How odd, that a seasoned knight would sympathize with that mindset.

“I’m not trying to rock your world in telling you this, Ingrid,” Catherine continued, cocking an eyebrow at her expression. “I’m trying to prepare you. And, well, telling you to lay off, too - the more you remind me how green you are, the less I’ll focus on my job when the time comes. I can’t be relied on to protect us both if I don’t keep faith that you won’t do something stupid if I turn my back.”

“I apologize,” Ingrid said automatically, bowing her head. Catherine sighed again, still rubbing at her shoulder; Ingrid wondered whether it was stiff from swordwork, whether she could assist in working out that tension. “I could - I can’t help but notice your shoulder seems to be bothering you,” Ingrid put forward.

“Just a bit.”

“If it would help, I could try massaging it? I’m no expert, but…”

“I’ll rely on a professional for that. You may do more harm than good, if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Right,” Ingrid shrunk back. She really couldn’t connect with Catherine at all, could she?

She felt Catherine’s eyes on her even as she kept her own trained on the floor of the caravan. They’d started moving while she was in the midst of her conversation; it was only a short ride, but Ingrid had already managed to sour the mood. “You don’t have to take that personally, you know,” Catherine reminded her, her voice low. “It was kind of you to offer.”

“Thank you.”

Catherine was quiet for another moment. Then, in an even softer voice, she added, “If you’re still interested in helping me relax, I do have one suggestion.”

“Yes?”

“Cuddle with me,” Catherine suggested. Her tone was light, and Ingrid very nearly laughed - but when she lifted her gaze, meaning to share some appreciation for the joke, she saw Catherine’s heavy-lidded expression, the soft smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Her bright blue eyes glinted from beneath the shadow of her bangs and Ingrid abruptly found it a struggle to reply.

“P-pardon?” she managed.

“Cuddle with me,” she repeated. She cocked her head, surveying Ingrid with an expression more critical than even before. “Let’s hold each other for a bit. You can sit on my lap.”

Ingrid, despite herself, glanced downward. Catherine’s legs were extended in front of her, crossed at the ankle, perfectly inviting - but -

“I don’t understand,” she spoke carefully, feeling as if there were something, some obvious hint, that she was missing.

“Come on, it’s not that hard,” Catherine pressed, irritation creeping into her tone. “You got me worked up. I need to relax again, or my fighting will suffer.”

“Right! Alright,” Ingrid said, shifting onto her knees, still afraid that there was something she was  _ missing _ here, still cautious on the approach, her mind spinning - was it really that  _ simple? _ Just - just crawl onto her lap, just sit there?

Catherine held her arms out for her as she came forward and Ingrid wasn’t sure whether that made it better or worse. She startled at the first slide of a hand over her side, her breath stuttering on its way into her lungs, her legs tangling together as she turned and settled downward onto Catherine’s thighs. They were firm, unyielding, and warm. 

There was a kind of  _ absurdity _ to this that pressed at Ingrid’s thoughts. She was well aware of Faerghus’s reputation for frigidness in interpersonal relations as well as in weather, but she supposed the culture shock hadn’t made itself quite so clear to her before. She hesitated where she was until Catherine used the hand around her waist to pull her closer to her own torso, letting the other come forward to link with her first, properly encircling her.

“Relax,” Catherine hummed, brushing Ingrid’s side with one thumb, the faint tickling sensation forcing her to swallow. “You never cuddled with a big sibling before? It’s just like that.”

Ingrid thought of Glenn. Her face grew even hotter.

She didn’t know how anyone could consider this comfortable. The duration of the ride couldn’t have been longer than three-quarters of an hour, yet she felt as if an eternity had passed; Catherine made conversation, breezy, unbothered, but Ingrid couldn’t remember a single word.

She did understand Catherine’s concerns about her stiffness hampering her in a new light, after that - the ensuing battle landed Ingrid in several scrapes that she knew she could easily have avoided, ones Catherine rescued her from with no difficulty whatsoever. She apologized over and over on the ride back, but Catherine just smiled.

“You were perfect, Ingrid,” Catherine assured her each time, reaching over to pet her side.

* * *

It was not the last time that Catherine requested physical comforts from her - far from it - but Ingrid gradually grew accustomed to the casual nature of the touches. When she suggested that Catherine had grown used to this brand of familiarity in the time since leaving Faerghus, Catherine had laughingly confirmed it and dismissed the Faerghan preference for reduced physical contact.

“Take a trip to Leicester sometime, you’ll never believe they were part of Faerghus once,” she snickered once, and Ingrid thought of her Leicestrian peers and agreed that, yes, they seemed a fair bit more openly affectionate than her Faerghan ones.

So she loosened up, slowly becoming as comforted by the touches as Catherine was. She still had her holdouts, certainly - she preferred not to perform these acts of affection in front of others, and Catherine didn’t press her on the matter - but she did come to agree that there was no better way to learn a new form than by having Catherine’s arms around her, guiding her movements.

In fact, Catherine’s system of training her had been everything Ingrid had hoped. They focused more on swords than on lances, but that combined with Catherine’s practical knowledge of battle tactics and leadership was helping Ingrid greatly; it wasn’t hard to translate Catherine’s advice about diverting the opponent’s attention into her lancework and it certainly felt good to manage tripping  _ Felix _ up in their next spar.

Her encounters with Catherine herself, on the other hand, had netted her no wins as of yet. She understood why, certainly - Catherine was the one training her, and that made Ingrid all the more predictable to her in an entirely different way - but the frustration was present in equal measure to the exhilaration.

That day in particular was only different for the fact that the former was more prominent than the latter, particularly because Horsebow Moon had rolled in with one final, particularly potent heat wave. Galatea territory wasn’t quite so far north as Gautier or Fraldarius and its proximity to Ailell had granted Ingrid somewhat more resistance to heat even then, but the sun bearing down on her from the open roof of the training grounds was enough to make even her lightheaded. She had paused long enough to tie her hair into a ponytail like Catherine’s just to keep it off her neck, but the length made it heavy enough that it just slid down and fell against the back of her neck anyway.

Catherine was no less ferocious for it - Ingrid supposed she couldn’t have expected any different. She’d paused to remove a layer earlier (and she cut a perfectly lovely figure in a half-buttoned shirt, her collarbone glistening with sweat) and was moving all the quicker now, unhampered and unconcerned with the heat.

“Focus!” she barked, swinging toward Ingrid again, and it was all Ingrid could do to  _ dodge,  _ let alone block - every breath was a battle all its own.  _ “Ingrid!” _

It was a disgrace. “Again,” Ingrid begged, parched, aching, and Catherine straightened, letting her sword arm fall.

“C’mon, at least take your blazer off. You’re burning up, Ingrid.”

“It - It wouldn’t be proper,” Ingrid panted, pulling at her neckline. In truth, she  _ longed _ to, would likely have if she had been facing anyone but her treasured mentor - but Catherine knew better than anyone that searing-hot conditions couldn’t stop one from pushing ahead in battle, and as such Ingrid knew that she couldn’t budge on this.

“If that were the case, you should’ve chastised me for dressing down long ago,” Catherine retorted, pulling at her own shirt as evidence. It clung with sweat, showing bright pink skin through the layer of white. It drew Ingrid’s eye to the tanline at Catherine’s throat where her usual uniform gave way to skin, and she nearly missed Catherine’s next sentence. “Come on, I don’t need you collapsing on me. It’s that or admit defeat and go back to your room.”

Ingrid’s gaze darted back to Catherine’s face; she had sincere concern written all over her expression. “On the battlefield -”

“It’s as important to make sure you’re still standing once the battle’s already over as it is to keep upright in the midst of it,” Catherine pushed. She gave Ingrid one last, pointed look. “I’m serious. If you won’t take your health seriously, I’ll kick you out of the training grounds. You know full well that I can.”

Ingrid drew in one slow breath, then, at last, reached for the buttons at her throat. Catherine nodded in satisfaction, watching Ingrid as she undid the buttons all the way down; something in the intensity of her gaze made her feel odd, though, so she turned her eyes downward, ostensibly focusing on where she placed her hands as she finished the task and shrugged her blazer off. She kept her eyes averted as she paced to the edge of the grounds, folding her jacket on her way, sparing a glance down. Her shirt wasn’t as clingy or transparent as Catherine’s, thank goodness.

“Better?” Catherine asked as Ingrid re-joined her, divested of her jacket, and Ingrid nodded. “You’re free to undo a few buttons of your dress shirt, too. I promise I won’t judge you for wanting to be comfortable.”

Ingrid shook her head, reaching up to tighten her ponytail. “No, this is fine. I already feel a little naked, if I’m being honest,” she chuckled uncomfortably. Catherine’s eyes still felt so  _ heavy _ wherever they touched her.

Catherine frowned. “Hey, if it’s going to help your sword work, I think it’s pretty damn well worth it.”

“This much is enough, really!” Ingrid insisted, her fingers finding the buttons at the base of her neck as if protecting them. “Let’s just get back to sparring - I feel more than ready.”

Catherine squinted, but fell into position. Ingrid did the same, feeling relieved and reassured that Catherine wouldn’t push the topic further, newly prepared for Catherine’s first move.

But as readily as Ingrid blocked the first swing, she realized that Catherine was swinging  _ harder _ than she had before. Harder than she ever had, when sparring with her.

Catherine pressed her harder, faster, each blow driving Ingrid back. Her head was spinning, astonished, knowing after having watched her in a  _ real _ battle that Catherine had been holding back but baffled as to what, exactly, had driven her to such extremes  _ now.  _ She was swift, controlled, not going so far as to  _ harm _ her but still laying bruising jabs on Ingrid’s sides, legs, relentlessly pursuing her until Ingrid felt her back hit one of the pillars at the edge of the yard.

Catherine disarmed her with the oldest, simplest trick in the book, overpowering Ingrid’s attempted counter with sheer strength, and then there she was, holding her training sword diagonally against Ingrid’s front, panting hotly into Ingrid’s space.

There was blood roaring in Ingrid’s ears. Catherine’s cold gaze flooded her entire field of vision, consuming every last thought, every last sound, drowning Ingrid in silence. She knew she was breathing only by the way Catherine’s dulled blade pressed into her chest with every inhale.

Her mouth opened and closed, pantomiming, wondering, but nothing came out. At long last, Catherine blinked.

“C’mon, Ingrid,” she said, bright, using her most sisterly voice, dropping her sword and pressing even closer, bringing her dexterous fingertips to the button at Ingrid’s throat, “I insist you at least let me undo the top two. You’ll lose even more time if you pass out from heat exhaustion, you know - Manuela’ll put you on bedrest.”

Words were beyond her. It was all Ingrid could do to nod. She wondered whether Catherine could feel her breath on her knuckles, or her face, or her neck - and then her eyes found Catherine’s neck, the clear definition there, shining and damp, tapering down, down to the dark curve of her cleavage. The visual of it was so simple, but so elegant, she thought, then banished that very thought as quickly as she was able.

“What?” Catherine hummed, and she dipped in, forcing a gasp from Ingrid’s mouth as she felt a tongue over her neck, a pair of wet lips on her cheek, and a quick, teasing squeeze of her breast, “Jealous? You’ll get there, Ingrid. Just wait a few years.”

She walked away then, swiping her training sword off the ground as she did, and in spite of the heat, in spite of the close proximity still lingering on her skin, Ingrid’s blood ran cold. She inhaled deeply, suddenly intimately aware of the sight of her own chest rising and falling in the periphery of her vision.

Catherine directed a glance over her shoulder, smiling again, swaying in place. “What’s holding you?” she called, “Come over here and strike back.”

* * *

It was difficult to categorize the specific misgivings Ingrid had about her relationship to Catherine. She had learned about all the different phases in the development of modern chivalry and that there once was a time - before Faerghus,  _ long _ before Faerghus - during which it was  _ expected _ that a knight and his squire would have a sexual relationship. There had once been an expectation that a squire would service his knight in a very particular way, and when Ingrid had first read about such relationships she had blushed up to her ears and stashed that book away like a shameful secret, thanking the goddess that such requirements were no longer the norm.

There was plenty to find issue with in Faerghus, but Ingrid didn’t consider the frigid interpersonal relationships among them. It made  _ sense _ to her that men lay with their wives, and not with other soldiers. Catherine’s warm hugs notwithstanding, Ingrid saw little reason to change these traditions around.

Furthermore, Ingrid had little reason to suspect that Catherine’s overtures to her had anything to do with ancient Adrestian tradition. Catherine had grown up in Faerghus. The only person she had ever sworn fealty to was Archbishop Rhea. If Catherine was touchy with her, it was because she  _ wanted _ to be touchy, and… Ingrid didn’t know how to feel about that.

Her hugs were nice. She smelled nice. Sitting diagonally against her lap, laughing warmly with her -

Again, it was all very difficult to categorize in any rational way.

What was simpler to categorize was the fact that training under Catherine took time out of her classwork, to the point where it was a struggle on nights when she  _ didn’t _ meet up with Catherine just to catch up with her studies. Catherine helped her in more specific ways, yes, but Ingrid wasn’t one to forego the more generalized areas of her studies and coast.

Her specific area of focus that day was on theoretical battle tactics. She’d clashed with Felix earlier that day on problems like these and it had set her on edge, driving her thoughts every which way and clouding her vision whenever she made another earnest attempt at the required reading. Her thoughts kept wandering back to Catherine, to the warmth and the weight of her hands on her shoulders, to that fateful afternoon in the training grounds -

No. No, no, that was not how it was done. Ancient tradition wouldn’t make her a better knight. It was an issue for her even to be thinking about this, now.

_ Assuming that your battalion is standing downhill and your mages are in as numerous supply as those of the enemy - _

“Sorry to bother, but have you seen Tomas?” a deep, feminine voice cut through Ingrid’s focus. Her eyes followed the sound, landing on Catherine’s familiar shape across the library where she was consulting an assistant. Her breath caught in her throat.

No, now was not the time. Catherine was here on her business, and Ingrid was likewise preoccupied with her own. She was fully capable of keeping her eyes on the page, her focus clear.

The research assistant led Catherine to the stairway and every creak of the steps resounded in Ingrid’s ears. Catherine stepped lighter than the assistant did, awe-inspiringly stealthy even in such idle times. It was enough to draw Ingrid’s eye, to watch Catherine’s firm thighs in her dressing-down pants, imagining that she could see a hint of tanned skin through the white fabric like she had in the training yard. She saw one of Catherine’s hands lift from her side and only realized she was being waved to when she saw Catherine bent over the railing, giving her an amused look. Ingrid startled, then waved shyly back.

Catherine being out of sight on the upper floor should have been Ingrid’s cue to focus. No, when she turned her gaze back downward, she found herself listening closely to every creak of the floorboards on the upper level, every hushed, indistinct word that reached her from above, teasing at the back of her head. She found the end of her braid and pulled her tie out just to give her hands something to do, pulling her fingers through her hair in an attempt at distracting her cluttered mind, fighting down the hope that Catherine might see and comment on it being down.

Footsteps on the stairs. Ingrid’s heart launched into her throat and she forced herself to look at the page in front of her, not taking in a single word and trembling with tension. She heard more than saw Catherine reach the bottom of the stairs, then heard her  _ approaching, _ stepping on light feet, resounding like the heaviest footsteps of the greatest Divine Beast.

Catherine approached around her backside and Ingrid felt as if she were being stalked by some fearsome predator. She practically jumped when Catherine placed her hand on the back of her chair and leaned forward over her shoulder. “Huh,” she said, and Ingrid thought she could feel her breath displacing loose hair on the back of her head. “I’m impressed you can actually make sense of theory like this.”

Ingrid turned her head, half-disappointed to see Catherine’s stunning blue eyes somewhat farther away than she’d expected. “You didn’t think I could?”

“No, just that I was never good at theoretical crap out of books,” Catherine laughed warmly, leaning back and crossing her arms over her chest. She was wearing a plain, loose button-up and Ingrid’s thoughts immediately strayed to shared memories. “I can command a battalion, sure, but I never got much out of  _ reading _ about tactical maneuvers like that. I had to learn through practice.”

Ingrid frowned. “I mean, practice will certainly be part of it. I know how much Annette likes reading, but she always freezes up in battle.”

“Yeah, but you can’t discount - I mean, I didn’t mean to discount actually reading about it,” Catherine put in, rubbing contemplatively at her chin. “I was just never good at the, ah, actual  _ studying _ part of school, you know? I just think it’s impressive that you are.”

Ingrid opened her mouth, a little taken aback. “Thank you,” she murmured, ducking her head in embarrassment. Catherine laughed again and Ingrid felt her face grow warm.

“At any rate, I know enough about reading to know I’m probably not helping,” Catherine muttered, and Ingrid lifted her head in time to see her scratching sheepishly at the back of her head. “I can leave you to it.”

Ingrid tried not to be disappointed when Catherine actually did what she said. She watched Catherine out of the corner of her eye as she paced away, settling audibly in a well-cushioned chair outside of Ingrid’s line of vision; she wondered whether Catherine was just waiting around for her, since she’d expressed so much distaste with the act of reading.

It was only a few lines that Ingrid didn’t actually absorb later that Catherine spoke up again. “Hey, how long have you been at it tonight?"

Ingrid swallowed, fighting down her excitement. “A… a couple hours.”

“Are you looking to take a break soon? I got an old book of knight’s tales I used to love here, if you wanted to join me.”

It was as if Catherine had reached straight into Ingrid’s psyche and extracted her idea of the perfect bonding exercise. Ingrid wondered whether she’d ever put a voice to that desire where Catherine could hear it - it almost seemed  _ too _ perfect.

“Hey, you can’t give me  _ that _ look and try to say no,” Catherine snickered and Ingrid placed a hand over her mouth, having completely forgotten her expression. “C’mon, you can worry about all that later.”

Ingrid swallowed and nodded, feeling - giddy, and silly, and perhaps a little stupid as she approached. She stepped toward an adjacent chair, stopped only by Catherine’s grunt of disapproval.

“C’mon, nobody’s watching,” Catherine chided her, holding her arms open and beckoning, “Make yourself comfortable.”

Ingrid paused. “I - I don’t know if that’s appropriate,” she murmured, glancing around - they  _ were _ the only ones in the area, but it wasn’t as if the library were  _ empty altogether. _ “This is still school property, and it’s the library…”

“I can’t think of a more appropriate place to read to my protege than in the library,” Catherine retorted, understated mirth creeping into her voice. “Rhea and I did this plenty of times, back in the day.”

Rhea did? Ingrid fidgeted with her sleeves for a moment, still convincing herself. Catherine looked so  _ nice _ like that, with her hair down, out of her usual regalia, and Ingrid thought, privately, that it must have been even better than her usual hugs, her usual touches. If Catherine could make an  _ armored _ hug feel nice -

She paced forward without another word, privately delighting in the satisfied sound that worked its way out of Catherine’s throat as she went. She carefully arranged her skirt as she sat, more concerned than usual that someone might see underneath it if she wasn’t careful, and settled into Catherine’s arms much easier than she had at the beginning of her apprenticeship.

“Good,” Catherine soothed her, pulling her close, so close, so that Ingrid could feel her hot breath against her neck. She stroked Ingrid’s hair, gliding fingers through it all the way down, down to her lower back, settling there and holding her idly as she reached for the book with her free hand. “Heh, I might need your help turning the pages - didn’t think about how you’d be disabling one of my hands.”

Ingrid huffed her amusement - but she obeyed, only paying enough attention to the story to know when to turn a page. She had heard this story a thousand times, of course - it was a popular one where they’d both grown up - but she was disarmed, too, by Catherine’s low, rhythmic tone, contrasting her bright, full-chested commands on the battlefield. Her voice was so  _ deep _ like this, vibrating against the side of Ingrid’s chest, releasing in muted puffs against her neck, lulling her enough that she felt she really might fall asleep.

“See?” Catherine murmured after some time, stroking her hair again, twirling soft fingers in the long ends of it, and Ingrid felt herself release a kind of sound that didn’t even  _ feel _ like herself - a sort of purr, the most contented and inarticulate of sounds. “It’s nice to have some down time, huh?”

“It is.”

“I remember the times when I would do this with Rhea,” Catherine reminisced, her tone warm, and thoughtfully tapped her fingers on Ingrid’s knee. She’d put the book down without her realizing - Ingrid saw it slipping down, beyond Catherine’s thigh, and reminded herself to rescue it from the seat cushions before they left. “Goddess, it feels so long ago. You’d better enjoy it while it lasts, you know - you’re not going to be this careless for long.”

Ingrid laughed, just a little. “I’m pretty far from careless.”

“Shame,” Catherine whispered, rubbing Ingrid’s thigh with a conciliatory thumb, turning her face upward and around, speaking more into Ingrid’s cheek now. “I guess you’ll only ever appreciate these times once you get older.”

Ingrid frowned, tempted to turn to Catherine to rebuff her but conscious of how  _ close _ she was. “I appreciate these times,” she huffed, “Especially when I’m bonding with you.”

She felt Catherine smile into her skin, feeling a thrum of contentment at the knowledge that she had pleased her. She could feel Catherine’s body heat between her legs in a very intimate way and wondered whether it was because she was wearing her uniform skirt - she couldn’t recall another time when it had felt quite so profoundly hot, there.

“That’s good to hear,” Catherine hummed, and her hand pressed harder, smoothing up Ingrid’s thigh, pressing her skirt upward as it went. Ingrid startled as she felt Catherine suck her earlobe in between her lips, then gasped, jerked, realizing just  _ where _ that hand was going -

She leapt off of Catherine’s lap, her shoulders hiked up to her ears, and hesitated there for a moment, gaping at Catherine, dismayed and - and shamed, and -

Catherine looked  _ annoyed, _ she looked -

Ingrid turned and fled. She wrung her hands as she went, countless thoughts cycling through her brain. Her entire body shuddered and she jerked first one leg, then the other, performing some strange, stilted dance, trying to dispel that  _ heat _ between them, that pressing pervasive dampness -

Catherine had a few things to say as she went, things Ingrid didn’t fully absorb because she was too busy realizing -

She liked it -

She really, really,  _ really _ liked it.

* * *

Catherine was curiously well-behaved that night.

Perhaps it was because their previous encounter had ended with such a sound rejection. Perhaps it was because they were in the company of the rest of the knights and Catherine was happier in their company than in hers. Perhaps it was because Catherine was as intimately aware of how out-of-place Ingrid was, surrounded by drunken knights celebrating the disbandment of a particularly prolific group of bandits, and was giving Ingrid the opportunity to slip away unnoticed.

Truthfully, she didn’t know that she had an argument for staying. It was obvious to anyone who spared her a glance that she was hardly comfortable - lingering just within arm’s reach of Catherine, not having had even a sip of ale, constantly jostled by unsteady knights and wondering to herself whether this was what knighthood looked like in Faerghus, too.

Ingrid had come because she was worried, after all the rejection, that she was back to square one with Catherine. That she had squarely established herself as a prude, a stick in the mud, frigid as a Gautier winter.

She figured, as she was once again unceremoniously shoved aside by none other than Alois on his way to congratulate Catherine on a particularly impressive kill, that she was doing little to redeem her image. She issued a long sigh, deciding that now was as good a time as any, turning for the door -

Only to be waylaid by a familiar embrace, a merry voice and a friendly arm slung around her shoulders. “Save your praises for someone who deserves it,” Catherine barked, her drunkenness primarily revealed by her volume above all else, “I’d be dead without my squire, here.”

Ingrid felt as if she’d pulled out of a vertical dive only to soar higher than ever, rising rapidly and reliant on the shifting support of her mount below her; she turned to Catherine with wide, bewildered eyes and an uncharacteristically high voice. “Me?”

“Who else, Ingrid?” Catherine laughed warmly, nuzzling the side of her head against the top of Ingrid’s, inviting similar chuckles from the company surrounding them. “Swooping in on that warlock - I’ve never seen a knight and her mount that much in sync. Cheers to Ingrid, eh?”

Glasses were raised, cheers resounded - Ingrid ducked her head, despite how sure she was that they were only toasting for an excuse to drink more - and Catherine ruffled her hair, huddled close. Ingrid waited for the cheers to fade, then, realizing that a fair amount of the attention was back on her, sent a glance toward Catherine.

“I’m just lucky to have such a gifted mentor,” she said bashfully. A couple whoops encouraged her further; “I - I’ve never been much of a risk taker, I’ll admit. But Catherine - she’s pushed me in ways I’d never imagine.” She could feel hot breath ruffling her bangs, what felt like a thousand eyes trained in her direction. An odd, secretive smile found its way onto her lips, and she lifted her head, shrugging Catherine off so that she could peer straight into her eyes. “She’s a treasure to me. Like a big sister.”

Catherine’s eyes widened, just a hair. The remainder of her expression was carefully neutral as more cheers - and a few awws - lifted from their surroundings. Her lips parted; Ingrid had never been quite so focused on their shape and their color. She wondered, for a moment, if she had gotten drunk without realizing, because her tongue felt hot, her mind dizzy.

“Hey,” Catherine said, lower than before, and it was only then that Ingrid registered the faint slur of her words, “I think I’ve had a few too many. I’m not making it back to Garreg Mach tonight.”

Ingrid was left to the task of booking their room, of keeping Catherine steady on the way up the stairs, and of fumbling with the key while Catherine hugged her from behind, nuzzling the hairs on the back of her neck as they came loose from her braid. She almost dropped the key when Catherine hotly whispered, “Big sister, huh? Some example I’m setting now.”

Ingrid folded both of her lips over her teeth, fighting down amusement at the statement. “Part of sisterhood is helping each other when it counts,” she offered, suppressing a gasp when she felt lips ghost over her skin. She felt Catherine’s scent all over her body as she finally worked the door open, casting it forward into the room and assisting Catherine on their way through it before closing it behind them. She smelled of sweat, mostly, and faintly of blood, the combined weight of it hovering on Ingrid’s tongue as she watched Catherine slump forward onto the bed without changing and roll onto her back.

“Sorry, I know I’m a mess,” Catherine mumbled, apparently feeling the weight of the alcohol pressing on her by the way she blinked slowly in the low light. Ingrid paused to turn on one of the magic lamps, watching Catherine in its warmer colors. “Don’t let me stop you from getting into something more comfortable.”

Ingrid took a deep breath. It was now or never.

“I was -” she began, shuddered, and pressed on. “I was - wondering - whether you’d like to attend to that matter, yourself.”

She couldn’t believe she’d done it.

She had really, really said it.

It felt like the seconds Catherine took to process the proposition and reply stretched into eternity. Her eyes were so bright, even in low, warm lighting, glinting across the room at her, slow breaths emerging from parted lips.

“Is that what you want, Ingrid?” Catherine asked. “Because I’d kind of assumed it wasn’t.”

Ingrid tried to answer - she did. Her mouth was open, but then her head fell forward - she wondered whether she’d exhausted her reserves of courage for the day, in contronting that mage, in following Catherine into the tavern, in putting the proposition forward in the first place. Her heart was pounding into her throat, and then -

And then Catherine, seeming to take pity on her, beckoned her closer, as she had so many times. “C’mon, Ingrid,” she murmured, “You’ve taken care of me already. Least I can do is return the favor.”

She paced forward as she had been bid, her head still depressed like she was some shamed child - Catherine greeted her with open arms and it was that much easier to place a thigh between hers and pull herself into Catherine’s lap. She pitched forward, supporting herself with two arms around Catherine’s head, and Catherine laughed into her bosom.

“Eager, huh? Might as well get the most you can outta me before I pass out,” she chatted, working a hot hand up Ingrid’s thigh. She’d already shed the bulk of her armor, so she was just in the under-dress, dark blue that contrasted her pale skin, forming a sweet sort of patchwork with Catherine’s darker hand. Ingrid rested her forehead against Catherine’s, watching its progress, then watching that hand dip beneath her skirt entirely. 

Her hips jerked up at the first gentle brush of skin against her underclothes, driving a stuttering cry from Ingrid’s lips; she impulsively hid her face in Catherine’s hair out of embarrassment, and Catherine, of course, laughed. “Hey, nothing to be ashamed of. I like to know when I’m doing my job right,” she purred, drawing her hand away and pushing Ingrid’s dress up her sides. “Let’s get this off. I’ve been longing to get a look at you.”

Should she have hesitated? She didn’t know. She didn’t know what a Faerghan would have done any better than she knew what an Adrestrian or Leicestrian would have done. All she knew was that the long sleeves of her gown felt like they were smothering her, so she did as she was told, pulling her dress up and off. Catherine played in the looser parts of her undershirt as she came back down to her lap, letting the garment fall wherever it pleased, feeling - odd, and bashful, and curiously  _ other _ from herself.

Catherine coaxed her further downward and there was - something to it, to feeling the warmth of Catherine’s thigh between her legs, right at the pinnacle of the heat building in her cunt. Ingrid ground forward, gasping high, and Catherine brushed her hair back, tucking it over her ear and smiling.

“Glad to see you’re finally warming up,” she whispered, and maybe Ingrid  _ was _ drunk - on victory more personal than professional, or just on Catherine herself. She let herself be kissed, groaning into that heat, feeling her arms curl upward and cover either breast because suddenly they were tingling, wanting to be touched.

“Wanna make love to you,” Catherine murmured, brushing one arm aside and cupping Ingrid there, resting her hand on that breast like it was just where that hand belonged, “Wanna make it good, just like my first time.”

Ingrid shuddered when that hot mouth trailed wet kisses back over her cheek, toward her ear. “With Rhea?” she asked, small and secretive. It felt like a privilege to receive the nod she did.

She felt weightless when Catherine lifted her, swaying with drink, and laid her on the bed, touching her again and again - on her breasts, on her waist, pulling up her undershirt to rest just over the curve of her breasts and then touching her over her smallclothes because even that much made Ingrid scream into her palm. Catherine’s eyelids were heavier than hers, but she found her way down, kissing Ingrid’s bare, cold stomach before finding her way to her mound, then her lips -

She still had her smallclothes on, and it still made her scream. Ingrid hooked her legs over Catherine’s shoulders - “You’re a natural,” came the purr - and crossed her ankles over her back, some strange echo of old cotillions classes lingering in her mind. Catherine drew her tongue over the thin, soft fabric, searing hot where it touched and pulling teasingly at parts further down. She found a - a spot, one just beneath the mound, at the head of the slit, that made Ingrid scream wordlessly and grind forward, seeking friction from her lips or her nose or her chin, anything that would stimulate that spot again.

Catherine waited for her to settle, then tirelessly abused that very spot until Ingrid shuddered and shook and didn’t  _ stop _ shaking, suddenly bone tired and warmer and drunker than ever.

She rolled onto her side when Catherine extricated herself, half-hugging her pillow, and purred with delight when Catherine slotted into place behind her.

And no, she didn’t have a hangover in the morning, not like Catherine. Maybe it was just because she was young - but she did know how deeply she had been lulled, how totally she had become intoxicated.

She followed the path laid out by her golden hair where it had loosed itself from her familiar braid, bleeding into the paler gold spilling onto the other side of the pillow. She watched the rise and fall of Catherine’s shoulder, then, carefully, hoping not to wake her up, edged up behind her.

Ingrid laid a sweet, hot kiss on the back of Catherine’s neck and thought, to herself alone, that she couldn’t wait for Catherine to touch her again.

**Author's Note:**

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